in her blood. Now she’s sitting on the desk, dangling her pretty, cheeky legs: “… and then when the band plays—really sweet and schmaltzy—and I’m with a good-looking guy—well, I don’t know what a girl’s supposed to do, so that nothing happens afterwards …” She looks enquiringly at Gilgi. “You just can’t say No,” fat Mueller says triumphantly. Little Behrend makes a sour face, then she laughs: “No, I can’t.” She pirouettes over to Accounts and steals a few indelible pencils … For it can’t last forehever … “just think, one day you’re fifty and men don’t want to kiss you anymore!” She tugs at her blouse—a gift from some guy. Why shouldn’t some guy give her a blouse? That’s not the sign of a bad girl, not by a long way. She can’t buy anything for herself, has to give all her salary to her mother. Gilgi admires the blouse. It’s very elegant—with hand-stitched embroidery—and doesn’t go at all with the threadbare little skirt and the worn-out cheap shoes. Gilgi likes tarty little Behrend a thousand times more than her well-behaved cousins. She’s as nippy and hard-working as an ant, and always happy and helpful.
After work Gilgi visits Olga. “My God, Olga, are you sick?”
Olga is lying in bed, with a wet handkerchief on her forehead, and melancholy in her eyes. “I’m not sick, it’s just that I was at a masked ball, now I feel queasy.”
Gilgi picks up a few articles of clothing from the floor and sits down on the side of Olga’s bed: “Drank too much?”—“Never been so sober in all my life,” Olga complains. “What was that? Why did I go? God, I’m living here like a combination of a Trappist monk and a Benedictine nun—I thought: have a little fun for once. Course, I must be suffering from advanced hardening of the arteries, deciding to go to a masked ball, of all things: the petty bourgeoisie stepping out—couples kissing like crazy, I won’t be able to stand the sight of couples kissing for at least the next year—it stank of sweat and cold cigar ash, disgusting! I believe my hair still stinks of smoke even now … could you hand me the bottle of lavender water from the table? What? It’s on the floor? Is it broken? No? Well, there’s no reason why it shouldn’t have been on the floor. Aaach, I just find life so revolting.” For a few seconds, Olga is dripping with Weltschmerz . For a few seconds only, then she throws out her arms, sits up with a jerk, the compress slips off, damp blond curls are stuck to Olga’s forehead. She takes a photograph from under her pillow, shows it to Gilgi: a man’s face, with good features. “Take a look at him, Gilgi—would you believe that I was married to him for six months?” No, Gilgi wouldn’t. She makes an impatient gesture, she knows the story of Olga’s marriage,and Olga has held Franzi’s photo under her nose a hundred times before.“Oh, Franzi!” Olga slobbers on the picture. “I do love him, even now—but only when I’m not with him.When we were together, it was terrible. He was as jealous as a touring-company Othello. Such a smart man, but—whatever you do—the point where being a man starts is the point where being smart stops. I became quite dazed. There was always shouting, shouting, shouting—about nothing. I mustn’t look from the top down, nor from the bottom up, and sideways was completely out of the question. But you’ve got to be allowed to look, one way or another. I was already getting my first worry-lines, all my reserves of humor were used up, all …”
Gilgi snatches Olga’s photo of Franzi away from her, stuffs it into the drawer of the night-table. She knows the story. “You’re right, I’m chattering like an old washerwoman” and Olga jumps out of bed with both feet, fiddles with the radio set: six stations at once, three foreign and three German.
“Have you gone nuts, Olga?”
“Of course not—this is just how it should be:
After work Gilgi visits Olga. “My God, Olga, are you sick?”
Olga is lying in bed, with a wet handkerchief on her forehead, and melancholy in her eyes. “I’m not sick, it’s just that I was at a masked ball, now I feel queasy.”
Gilgi picks up a few articles of clothing from the floor and sits down on the side of Olga’s bed: “Drank too much?”—“Never been so sober in all my life,” Olga complains. “What was that? Why did I go? God, I’m living here like a combination of a Trappist monk and a Benedictine nun—I thought: have a little fun for once. Course, I must be suffering from advanced hardening of the arteries, deciding to go to a masked ball, of all things: the petty bourgeoisie stepping out—couples kissing like crazy, I won’t be able to stand the sight of couples kissing for at least the next year—it stank of sweat and cold cigar ash, disgusting! I believe my hair still stinks of smoke even now … could you hand me the bottle of lavender water from the table? What? It’s on the floor? Is it broken? No? Well, there’s no reason why it shouldn’t have been on the floor. Aaach, I just find life so revolting.” For a few seconds, Olga is dripping with Weltschmerz . For a few seconds only, then she throws out her arms, sits up with a jerk, the compress slips off, damp blond curls are stuck to Olga’s forehead. She takes a photograph from under her pillow, shows it to Gilgi: a man’s face, with good features. “Take a look at him, Gilgi—would you believe that I was married to him for six months?” No, Gilgi wouldn’t. She makes an impatient gesture, she knows the story of Olga’s marriage,and Olga has held Franzi’s photo under her nose a hundred times before.“Oh, Franzi!” Olga slobbers on the picture. “I do love him, even now—but only when I’m not with him.When we were together, it was terrible. He was as jealous as a touring-company Othello. Such a smart man, but—whatever you do—the point where being a man starts is the point where being smart stops. I became quite dazed. There was always shouting, shouting, shouting—about nothing. I mustn’t look from the top down, nor from the bottom up, and sideways was completely out of the question. But you’ve got to be allowed to look, one way or another. I was already getting my first worry-lines, all my reserves of humor were used up, all …”
Gilgi snatches Olga’s photo of Franzi away from her, stuffs it into the drawer of the night-table. She knows the story. “You’re right, I’m chattering like an old washerwoman” and Olga jumps out of bed with both feet, fiddles with the radio set: six stations at once, three foreign and three German.
“Have you gone nuts, Olga?”
“Of course not—this is just how it should be:
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